“And
[Jesus] said…’My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect
in weakness.’” II Corinthians 12:9
As we first
learned about our pregnancy, I thought about what it was going to be like to be
the only person on the planet to enjoy this entire process with Sunday. I was going to be the only one to watch her
stomach grow. I was going to be the only
person to see her entire body morph and change with every new week. As she held her breath with every weigh-in at
the doctor’s, I was going to be the only one to talk to her about it, stepping
each step with her, noticing things that other people couldn’t. I was going to be there. I couldn’t wait.
Sunday’s
attitude about gaining weight was controlled, at first, with her lifelong
pursuit of a healthy body. But whether
she wanted it or not, for the first time since she was fourteen years old, she
gained weight.
That first
trimester was a hoot. She only gained
weight in her stomach. She looked like
she had a perpetual case of bad gas. Since
it was only in her stomach, she immediately grew out of her pants. She would pause in front of mirrors and pull
up her shirt, showing her stomach. I
would watch her. She didn’t care that
she was gaining weight or that her clothes were becoming a part of her past-tense
conversations. And she was happy.
Until that
fateful day…
I was
sitting on the couch, either watching some form of football game—college or
pro—or I was reading something. I looked
over at our loveseat and Sunday’s face was so low, it looked like the corners
of her mouth were resting on her knees.
She was sad.
Being the
sensitive husband I am, I continued to watch television.
After a few
commercial breaks, I could tell that she was staring at me. So I asked, “Do you need something,
babe? Iced tea? Snack?”
Then, the
point of conversation every man hates.
Without saying a word, her chin began to quiver. I had said something or I had done
something. Somewhere in the universe,
justice was speeding to our living room, ready to deliver the death whammy on
the formerly peaceful place we called our home. I was doomed.
Without
muting the television or sighing too loudly, I quickly moved to the loveseat
and put my arm around her. “What’s
wrong?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“No,
really. You’re dripping on your new
pants. What’s wrong.”
“These
pants aren’t new.”
“Is that the problem?”
I
immediately knew that I was wrong.
“Sorry,” I
said. “Can you tell me why you’re
crying?”
“You’ll
think I am stupid.”
“You’re not
stupid, babe. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“You
promise you won’t think I’m stupid?” I
nod my head.
“I am
wearing your pants.”
Silence.
I didn’t
get it.
Here’s where
a woman may understand this new revelation more quickly than I did. I didn’t understand that her size was so
deeply connected to who she was. Her
larger size changed how she had defined her body for the previous 14
years. Although she was changing because
she was a woman creating something only women create, she felt less like
herself because she was wearing my pants.
Silence.
Then, I
tried to cheer her up. I scooted away
from her a little bit, and I said with a chuckle, “And what’s wrong with
wearing my pants? I wear them every
day.”
She looked
at me. At this point in the
conversation, I officially became the most insensitive man on the planet. Literally.
I got a trophy and everything.
I think
about this scene, even years after it happened.
This conversation about the size of pants caught me totally off
guard. To be honest, I think it caught
Sunday ill-prepared, too. But being
surprised wasn’t the worst part: I
just didn’t get it. I didn’t understand that
gaining ten pounds at a time was going to be difficult for Sunday, even though
gaining weight comes with being pregnant.
In my mind, getting larger was a part of the show, a slice of life for
me to enjoy. For Sunday it was a
confusing time, fraught with uncertainty and discomfort. We weren't ready for this.
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